


The Tragedy of Christine

by Mistress_of_Universes



Category: Discord Murder Party (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Post S3E1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23747857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistress_of_Universes/pseuds/Mistress_of_Universes
Summary: When Christine Forks returned from The Void, her mind didn’t immediately go blank.Based on what we were told by Ælethias.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	The Tragedy of Christine

“ me!”

When Christine Forks returned from The Void, her mind didn’t immediately go blank. Her last word hung in the air, yelled at a creature that no longer stood before her, threatening her entire existence. It echoed slightly, like words ~~or screams, god there were always so many screams,~~ in The Void did, followed immediately by a blast of heat and sound. Real sound, real sensation, something that she hadn’t realized that she had missed, things that she fell in love with immediately even though the heat hurt and tears from an eternity ago still glistened on her cheeks. She sat on her knees for a little bit, taking in the taste of smoke, the burning of her nose and throat, the watering of her eyes. Some things never quite worked correctly in the void and fire was one of them. She had forgotten what it actually looked like, how much it hurt to be around.

Sirens blared outside, red and blue flashing through windows. The sound of beams cracking reminded her of the danger this fire posed and she moved, dazed, towards a door. A photo of her family fell from her hands into the path of the flames, unnoticed. She feels satisfied, having made it home ~~but she had never left~~ , having reconciled with Junior ~~having killed the Grace Killer with her own hands~~ but the weight of her accomplishment ~~of her crime~~ weighs heavily on her mind and settles poorly. She needs to go back and help them ~~but she knows that she can’t, that she didn’t, that there was no one ever there in the first place~~.

Firemen rush past, placing a blanket on her shoulders and ushering her over to an ambulance. The police ask her about what happened and she tells them everything that had passed inside the house. She starts off with the basic facts; she woke up having heard a noise downstairs and checked on her children only to find them dead; Matthew cried out downstairs but a shot rang out and he died. It hurt to relive it again, yet again but memories start to well up of her time in the void. She remembers learning who Junior was, getting to know him, ~~forgiving him~~ , killing him completely unaware of what was going on.

“Oh god, I killed him. I killed him and….” She gets cut off by the police officer who asks who she killed. Tears stream down her face as the memories keep repeating ~~, warping.~~ “Junior. He was the Grace Killer but …”

There will be no sleep for Christine as she relives a story ~~that is changing in her mind with every word she says~~ that is so horrific over and over again at the behest of the police.

~~

In the days that pass, she writes as much down as she can remember. Things that she can never tell anyone about. The Games and her involvement. Some of the masks she remembers wearing. The time spent in the lounge. ~~Her fellow Awakened~~ Some of the people that were there. She fills a journal, then two. She tries to draw their faces but art was never her strong suit. She dreads meeting with her attorney, feeling the memories draining out of her as he never stops talking. She lives with her in-laws for a while before finding an apartment for herself, the walls of which are covered in paper within days. She gets a job and spends her breaks writing down any details that she can on receipt paper ~~but they’re starting to blur~~.

The court case drags on and she recounts the ~~lies about Junior’s death~~ story of that night what feels like infinite times. One time the stress and memories ~~, memories of her final act of refusal against the Murder God,~~ both are so overwhelming that she cries when the prosecutor asks her about her motive. A recess is called and she sits outside trying to calm down. ~~She feels Vincent holding her, letting her cry into his shoulder in grief for herself and her family, for him and his sacrifice.~~ It doesn't quite work and she goes back up to the stand still sniffling.

She will be acquitted by the end of the day.

~~

The scent of food ~~of the lounge~~ follows her out of the grocery store. Passing a family seated outside at a restaurant she hears the ~~sound of celebration from when she and Junior had first awakened~~ celebration of a birthday party. A few papers with scrawled half memories try to fall out of her bag as she walks home. The open air is liberating, terrifying. Red threads dance in the corner of her eye. She walks a little faster; she runs. ~~“My dear Christine, my Firebrand,”~~ a phantom whispers in her ear. ~~A tall dark silhouette with a gun~~ a man steps out of an alleyway holding a broom.

She barely sleeps and when she does, it's restless, ~~filled with memories of the game~~ filled with nightmares and screaming. The landlord has been called on her a half dozen times in the middle of the night from noise complaints. His wife is slightly more understanding and tries to bring her cookies the morning after particularly difficult nights. They look delicious but remain uneaten ~~because they might be poisoned or drugged or have blades in them, they’re almost certainly deadly~~ because she doesn't care for sweets all that much. She modifies recipes so that she doesn't have to use knives ~~or see someone’s blood on her hands again~~.

Christine is late to nearly every shift at her job. Her manager checks up on her, once, but then starts lecturing about timeliness. “And I don't want to hear anything about you being late coming back from your breaks either. You have ten minutes _~~You have ten minutes!~~_ and that’s all.”

She nods in terror, seeing a face she wishes she could forget. Her manager walks away satisfied and Christine stands statuesque reliving scenario after scenario. Tears stream down her face as she watches a child turn into a werecorgi, the death of someone she thought was a friend, the murder of her husband, Matthew turning away from her. She feels the weight of a gun in her hands again and she's pointing it at her family and Murder God is talking: “ ~~Excuse me ma'am, where would I find a can of tomatoes? Ma'am?~~ ”

She turns and it’s ~~Percy Blackwood~~ a lost customer. “ ~~Are you alright Miss Forks?~~ Ma'am, are you ok?” the teen says, tilting her head a small bit and looking at Christine intently. Christine, suddenly a little self conscious, rubs the tears away hurriedly. “I'll be fine. What did you need?”

“I was just wondering where the tomatoes were. I need to grab a can for my mom. ~~Are you sure you’re alright Miss Forks?~~ ”

“I said I’ll be fine Percy. As for a can of tomatoes, try aisle thirteen.” The teen sputters a little before turning to leave as Christine returns to her work, lost in memories of the lounge. Her ten minute break lasts a solid half hour as she gets lost in the backrooms, running from a murderer only to realize that there isn’t anyone else there. She goes home that night and calls out sick from work the next day. And the next. And then just stops bothering at all.

She lays on her bed, sinking under the weight of the blankets, eyes wide open but blank, seeing a world that she never should’ve been able to. Strings seem to hold her bound and no matter how much she struggles she can not free herself from their grasp. “You promised… Hello, uh, my name is Dina Shur… How do you solve a problem like Maria... We want to send you home Old Man Bei… Is there somewhere you’re going with this Mister Baseball Head… WHERE IS HE WHERE IS HE WHERE IS HE WHERE IS HE…” Masks cycle at random, memories of death, the taste of blood, the pain of gun wounds. The screams begin and continue on for hours until her voice rasps out with pain, a hiss of a shriek still emanating from her lips. Her rent is due today, next week, three days ago, she doesn’t pay rent but lives on the island. There is a knock at the door. ~~There is a knock at the door.~~ It’s Tommy coming up to ask her to join them in the lounge. ~~It’s the landlord’s wife who is worried about her.~~

One night, the landlord will call the institution and she will go there the next morning.

~~

When she goes to the institution, she checks herself in, dazed. She is diagnosed with schizophrenia, PTSD, bereavement, derealization disorder symptoms, adjustment disorder symptoms. Her journals of the memories are of the few belongings she brings with her. They disappear about a week into her stay. She writes and draws them out again, as best she can. ~~It's not the same, things are missing. She can’t place what.~~

She is placed on amoxapine to help with the depression, chlorpromazine for schizophrenia, propranolol for anxiety… it feels like half a pharmacy is prescribed, doses changed, new medications taking the place of one from a week ago. Therapy occurs several times a day. She dreads it at first, talking about the things that happened ~~that they say didn´t.~~ Her nights are scattered and restless, disrupted by memories or the other inpatients. Meals are lackluster and the days pass with little interest. Her time alone starts in her room but that reminds her too much of The Game and she takes to sitting next to a window looking out in the main room. ~~~~

She reads. She writes. She talks, one story at a time. Her mother’s funeral. Her father and his abusive nature. Meeting her husband. Her children. ~~Her wish. The village. Being a murderer. Being the seer. Handing out gifts. Watching in horror, unable to act. Vincent Marshall Reid and his story.~~ The day before their death. ~~The night The Games began for her.~~ How she found them dead. Her doctor nods and writes a note to increase the dosage of her antipsychotics. He never believes that she actually lived through endless death games and she knows it. She plays along a little and tells him that she isn’t hearing the voices as often, isn’t seeing the deaths. He doesn’t believe that either and her antipsychotic dosage goes up again. ~~~~

Sometimes she has a day where she isn’t triggered by anything. Sometimes she just gets to sit by her window (everyone knows that it’s her window and have learned better than to try and take it), looking out onto the yard and thinking about the spring flowers and the sunlight. ~~~~

Sometimes she spends her time next to the window looking at her hands feeling guilty. She writes names with paint on her arms when no one is looking. Her family. Her other family. She cries in grief for living, for killing, for not being strong enough to live, for having made a wish. ~~~~

Sometimes the orderlies have to literally move her out of the corner of her room where she is screaming about the blood, all the blood, it’s on everything, it’s on her hands, she has to get it off, she has to get it off, she didn’t want to be a murderer, she never wanted this, this isn’t what she wished for. ~~~~

Her doctor recommends electrocompulsive therapy. After all, the drugs weren’t doing much. She hesitates at first but in the end decides to agree to it. Memories ~~of The Game~~ ~~of her life~~ of her ~~stay~~ blur. Voices ~~voices~~ talk ~~whisper~~ about ~~her therapy sessions~~ ~~her role~~. Names ~~don´t mean anything.~~ Her doctor ~~says she’s improving.~~ She feels ~~better.~~ She feels ~~confused.~~ She feels ~~guilty.~~ She feels, more like herself, she supposes. The ECT eventually stops. ~~~~

She rereads her own writing, her own journals but by then the stories in them feel just like that. Stories, like you might read in a novel. She considers publishing them when she gets out, just for a moment, but thinks better of it. Something about the symbols that are in the corner and the mask of the teen that didn’t know better seem to warn her. ~~~~

Her roommate looks at the journals with her. She points at the drawings. “That one’s pretty.” ~~~~

“These are nothing compared to …” Christine trails off. The name is on the tip of her tongue but she can’t say it. It starts with a P, right? Or was it a G? A D? She shakes her head. “They’re nothing compared to an old friend of mine. His art was incredible. He wanted to go to art school.” ~~~~

“Did he ever get to?” ~~~~

Christine doesn’t know. She doesn’t even know why she said that. Something to mention to her doctor later. She turns the page. It’s a story about a farm boy who wanted nothing more than to be an artist. _What an odd coincidence_. ~~~~

“Is that him?” her roommate points at the scrawled attempt of the farm boy. Christine nods, first quickly and then more hesitantly, confused. She blinks a few times and shakes her head. “He looks nice. Kind.” ~~~~

“He was dumber than a box of rocks sometimes.” ~~~~

“Well, sometimes people are like that.” ~~~~

The narrative (though she’s never quite certain it counts as that, given it’s written in first person and was apparently her memories) transitions wildly. The farm boy changes to a war scene to a bus to the teen cultist to a cancer patient to a list of things that she doesn’t quite understand yet to a detective to a wild west scene to an odd doctor. A picture of him is taped in at the end of the journal. “That one is upside down.” ~~~~

“She tended to hang him upside down for some reason.” Great. Another thing to tell her doctor. ~~~~

“She?” Christine shakes her head and the roommate drops the subject. She flips to the very front of the journal. Vincent Marshall Reid is written in capital letters across two pages. It looks vaguely familiar. She barely remembers having written about a soldier who gave up everything for his family and country. The handwriting is hers, but the tale isn’t familiar. ~~~~

She mentions this to her doctor that afternoon and he nods happily. Something something delusions lessening something something. The antipsychotic prescription is lowered infinitesimally. ~~~~

Christine will go home within the year. ~~~~

~

The journals lay forgotten on a bookshelf in the living room. Sometimes Christine sees them when she’s cleaning up but she’s far too busy to open them up. And why should she? She knows what’s in them and they don’t help her psychosis. Ages ago, her therapist recommended that she throw them away but something keeps her from doing that as well. So on the bookshelf the journals shall stay, untouched. They collect dust and wait. She says that she’ll get rid of them one day but she never does.

The books will sit on Christine’s bookshelf for years, growing less and less memorable as time takes its toll on them.

~

She finishes her breakfast, takes her meds and heads to her workplace. She managed to get a job at a little cafe, helping serve, make food and draw up promotional flyers. Her coworkers smile as she comes in. It’s a big day today. There is a celebration for the town’s anniversary and everyone has been working their butts off to get everything made. Christine is amped up and helps drive the team forwards, keeping morale and productivity high.

 ~~Everything in your life burns bright, doesn’t it.~~ She shakes her head for a second. Nothing is going to ruin her day, not even fake memories. Plus, they’ve been far less common recently. This is the first one in about 5 months. She’s making wonderful progress in moving past her trauma according to her therapist.

Mindy asks how she’s doing and there’s only a tiny twinge of sadness. She ignores it, says that she’s doing fine and finishes transferring cookies to decorated plates.

“What are you doing after all this is over?”

“Probably stopping by the library. I reserved a few books the other day and need to pick them up.”

Mindy looks very interested. “Oh? What’cha reading?”

“Well last week, I found a few murder mysteries set during the second world war that were really interesting. They’re not what I usually read but once I started, I couldn’t stop. Tons of twists and turns. I wanted to see if I could find anything else by the same author and then found a dozen more books by her. I’m not certain I’m going to read them all but I figured I’d give some of them a shot.”

“Really? What was the murder mystery? I’d love to read it. I’ve been dying for something new to read.”

“I think it was _Pace in Giardino_ by Ms. M. And the sequel was..” She digs through her purse for a second to find the receipt. “ _La Nebbia Sorge dal Giardino_.”

Mindy writes the name down on a serving ticket and puts it in her pocket. They both set back to work and Christine has a lingering feeling that this was the right thing to do. That recommending books is normal between her and her friends for some reason. But something is still missing.

“Hey Mindy?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you think about starting a book club?”

Her therapist is overjoyed to hear that Christine is starting a book club with a few friends. He gives her a few recommendations before asking about how she’s been doing. She’s slowly been forgetting the names of the voices but every once in a while something will come to mind again. She doesn’t feel connected to them any longer and has been focusing on mindfulness.

She doesn’t mention that she’s been waking up with tears on her face.

She doesn’t mention that the books she read kept reminding her of the stories in her journals.

She doesn’t mention that any time the Grace Killer is mentioned that she feels somewhat lost as to how to actually feel, like two sides of her are warring over anger and compassion.

She doesn’t mention that she somewhat regrets losing ~~her only connection to the Awakened~~ something. She doesn’t even remember what it is at this point.

She doesn’t mention that she feels like she was supposed to do something but can’t remember what. It was something important but what was it? She needed to help.. someone to do.. something.

She says that she’s considering donating some time at a foster care center. Helping some kids there feel a little more at home, a little more connected to the rest of the world. At her core, she is a mother after all. The therapist nods and smiles. He gives her a reference to one in the area that he thinks she’ll fit in with. She realizes the time, realizes that she’s late for her book club and promises to check out the place he suggested. They shake hands and she leaves.

She doesn’t notice the small black star design on his lapel.

Mindy has star-shaped lemon cookies ready by the time Christine arrives and they dive straight back into reading _My Name is John_ , an introspective piece by Ms. M. It takes place in a universe that all of the Ms. M books tie into, an open world that continually shifts and changes as the story goes on. Christine isn’t certain how she feels about the character of John but maybe his story will be more interesting as it continues.

The book club will become a story time as Christine and Mindy start volunteering at the local library, reading these books to children, teens, even young adults, on Monday afternoons starting at 2:30 and running to 4:00.

~

Christine Forks will go home and live out a normal and somewhat mundane life. She will not notice that there are people keeping tabs on her every move. She will not realize that her journals were stolen from her house until a month after it happened. She will not remember her time in the void beyond faint flashes of memories in dreams.

She will stop caring about the pain that shoots through her on occasion. She will do her best to help out the children that she can. She will ignore the ever present sense of something missing. She will make friends, read books, create art and do her best to make the world a better place. She will grow old and will eventually die, content that she will finally be reunited with her family.

And one day, long after she has died, a book appears in a familiar library. A story about a woman who faced heartbreak and hellfire out of love for her family. A story about a woman who learned to forgive the person she hated most. A story of how a Firebrand lost everything for a second time but this time, learned to move on. Yet another book written by the mysterious Ms. M.

_Pulchra Tragoedia._


End file.
